It was very well for Paulina to decline further correspondence with Graham
till her father had sanctioned the intercourse. But Dr. Bretton could not live
within a league of the Hôtel Crécy, and not contrive to visit there
often. Both lovers meant at first, I believe, to be distant; they kept their
intention so far as demonstrative courtship went, but in feeling they soon drew
very near.

All that was best in Graham sought Paulina; whatever in him was noble,
awoke, and grew in her presence. With his past admiration of Miss Fanshawe, I
suppose his intellect had little to do, but his whole intellect, and his highest
tastes, came in question now. These, like all his faculties, were active eager
for nutriment, and alive to gratification when it came.

I cannot say that Paulina designedly led him to talk of books, or formally
proposed to herself for a moment the task of winning him to reflection, or
planned the improvement of his mind, or so much as fancied his mind. could in
any one respect be improved. She thought him very perfect; it was Graham himself
who, at first by the merest chance, mentioned some book he had been reading, and
when in her response sounded a welcome harmony of sympathies, something pleasant
to his soul, he talked on, more and better perhaps than he had ever talked
before on such subjects. She listened with delight, and answered with animation.
In each successive answer, Graham heard a music waxing finer and finer to his
sense; in each he found a suggestive, persuasive, magic accent that opened a
scarce known treasure-house within, showed him unsuspected power in his own
mind, and what was better, latent goodness in his heart. Each liked the way in
which the other talked; the voice, the diction, the expression pleased; each
keenly relished the flavour of the other's wit; they met each other's meaning
with strange quickness, their thoughts often matched like carefully chosen
pearls. Graham had wealth of mirth by nature; Paulina possessed no such inherent
flow of animal spirits -- unstimulated, she inclined to be thoughtful and
pensive -- but now she seemed merry as a lark; in her lover's genial presence
she glanced like some soft glad light. How beautiful she grew in her happiness,
I can hardly express, but I wondered to see her. As to that gentle ice of hers -
- that reserve on which she had depended; where was it now? Ah! Graham would not
long bear it; he brought with him a generous influence that soon thawed the
timid, self-imposed restriction.

Now were the old Bretton days talked over; perhaps brokenly at first, with a
sort of smiling diffidence, then with opening candour and still growing
confidence. Graham had made for himself a better opportunity than that he had
wished me to give; he had earned independence of the collateral help that
disobliging Lucy had refused; all his reminiscences of 'little Polly' found
their proper expression in his own pleasant tones, by his own kind and handsome
lips; how much better than if suggested by me.

More than once when we were alone, Paulina would tell me how wonderful and
curious it was to discover the richness and accuracy of his memory in this
matter. How, while he was looking at her, recollections would seem to be
suddenly quickened in his mind. He reminded her that she had once gathered his
head in her arms, caressed his leonine graces, and cried out, 'Graham, I do like
you!' He told her how she would set a footstool beside him, and climb by its aid
to his knee. At this day he said he could recall the sensation of her little
hands smoothing his cheek, or burying themselves in his thick mane. He
remembered the touch of her small forefinger, placed half tremblingly, half
curiously, in, the cleft in his chin, the lisp, the look with which she would
name it 'a pretty dimple,' then seek his eyes and question why they pierced so
telling him he had a 'nice, strange face; far nicer, far stranger than either
his mamma or Lucy Snowe.'

'Child, as I was,' remarked Paulina, 'I wonder how I dared be so venturous.
To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible, and Lucy, I feel a
sort of fear when I look at his firm, marble chin, at his straight Greek
features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he is not like a woman therefore I
suppose he is not beautiful,. but what is he, then? Do other people see him with
my eyes? Do you admire him?'

'I'll tell you what I do, Paulina,' was once my answer to her many
questions. 'I never see him. I looked at him twice or thrice about a year ago,
before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes; and if he were to cross their
balls twelve times between each day's sunset and sunrise, except from memory, I
should hardly know what shape had gone by.'

'I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.' It was
best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for ever the tender,
passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, and sometimes dropped in
my ear -- molten lead. To me, she commented no more on her lover's beauty.

Yet speak of him she would; sometimes shyly in quiet, brief phrases;
sometimes with a tenderness of cadence, and music of voice exquisite in itself;
but which chafed me at times miserably; and then, I know, I gave her stern looks
and words; but cloudless happiness had dazzled her native clear sight, and she
only thought Lucy -- fitful.

'Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!' she would say, smiling at me. 'Graham says you
are the most peculiar, capricious little woman he knows; but yet you are
excellent; we both think so.'

'You both think you know not what,' said I. 'Have the goodness to make me as
little the subject of your mutual talk and thoughts as possible. I have my sort
of life apart from yours.'

'But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shall share
it.'

'I shall share no man's or woman's life in this world, as you understand
sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am not sure; and till I am
sure I live solitary.'

There is in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have a
witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulina had forbidden
letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved against correspondence, yet she
answered were it only to chide. She showed me these letters; with something of
the spoiled child's wilfulness and of the heiress's imperiousness, she made me
read them. As I read Graham's, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood
her pride: they were fine letters -- manly and fond -- modest and gallant. Hers
must have appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written to show her
talents; still less, I think to express her love. On the contrary, it appeared
that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding that feeling, and bridling
her lover's ardour. But how could such letters serve such a purpose? Graham was
become dear as her life; he drew her like a powerful magnet. For her there was
influence unspeakable in all he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this
unconfessed confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to
adieu.

'I wish papa knew; I do wish papa knew!' began now to be her anxious murmur.
'I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back from telling him. There
is nothing I long for more than to have this affair settled -- to speak out
candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, I am certain, papa will be angry
at the first; I fear he will dislike me almost: it will seem to him an untoward
business; it will be a surprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect
on him'

The fact was -- her father, long calm, was beginning to be a little stirred:
long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning to trespass on his
eye.

To her, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhaps
thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.

One evening -- Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to
Graham; she had left me in the library, reading -- M. de Bassompierre came in;
he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to remain -- gently, yet
in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He had taken his seat near the
window, at a distance from me; he opened a desk; he took from it what looked
like a memorandum-book; of this book he studied a certain entry for several
minutes.

'It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of May,
in the year 18--, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just
reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve -- fourteen -- an indefinite
date; but she seemed a child.'

'She is about eighteen,' I repeated. 'She is grown up; she will be no
taller.'

'My little jewel!' said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated like
some of his daughter's accents.

'Sir, don't grieve,' I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken as
they were.

'She is the only pearl I have,' he said; 'and now others will find out that
she is pure and of price: they will covet her.'

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had shone
both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom embellished his
aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus of a high hope,
something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled attention I think he
had purposed on that day to indicate the origin of his endeavours and the aim of
his ambition. M. de Bassompierre had found himself forced in a manner, to descry
the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was
logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a
long labyrinth.

'It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety which
always characterises you; but this matter is a grief to me; my little girl was
all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton might as well have
looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and pretty women who would not, I
dare say, dislike him: he has looks, and conduct, and connection. Would nothing
serve him but my Polly?'

'If he had never seen your "Polly," others might and would have pleased him
-- your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.'

'Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly! ---- I
can't let him have her. No -- I can't. He is not her equal,' he affirmed, rather
gruffly. 'In what particular is he her match? They talk of fortune! I am not an
avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks of these things -- and Polly
will be rich.'

'Would you, sir, think anyone Paulina's match? Would you prefer any other to
Dr. Bretton? Do you think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference
in your feelings towards a future son-in-law?'

'I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,' I went on, gaining
courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse. 'Other suitors will
come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused. Wherever you go, I suppose,
aspirants will not be wanting. Independent of heiress-ship, it appears to me
that Paulina charms most of those who see her.'

'Nonsense! -- begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too
partial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks -- but then I am
her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing, fairy-like,
interesting to me; -- you must be mistaken in supposing her handsome?'

'She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your wealth
and position.'

'My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought so ----
'

'Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, Mr. de
Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would -- as you would yourself
under the same circumstances -- but they are not his baits. He loves your
daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they influence him
worthily.'

'Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence and
learning dined here?'

'I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day; its
womanliness made me smile.'

'And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the
drawing-room?'

'I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation -- as one might amuse
oneself with a pretty infant.'

'Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French
gentlemen say she was "pétrie d'esprit et de grâces." Dr. Bretton
thought the same.'

'She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I do believe she has some
character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me; they thought I
should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and tenderer as I grew worse
in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam she was in my sickroom! Yes; she
played about my chair as noiselessly and as cheerful as light. And now she is
sought in marriage! I don't want to part with her,' said he, and he groaned.

'You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,' I suggested, 'it would be
less like separation to give her to him than to another.'

'True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,' he murmured. 'She and I are indeed
old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young. You talk of
beauty, Miss Snowe! she was handsome, if you will -- tall, straight and blooming
-- not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me: at eighteen, Louisa had a
carriage and stature fit for a princess. She is a comely and a good woman now.
The lad is like her; I have always thought so, and favoured and wished him well.
Now he repays me by this robbery! My little treasure used to love her old father
dearly and truly. It is all over now, doubtless -- I am an incumbrance.'

The door opened -- his 'little treasure' came in. She was dressed, so to
speak in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the close of
day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson heightened her
complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily neck; her white dress
suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she had brought in her hand the
letter just written -- brought it folded but unsealed. I was to read it. When
she saw her father, her tripping step faltered a little, paused a moment -- the
colour in her cheek flowed rosy over her whole face.

'Polly,' said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile, 'do
you blush at seeing papa? That is something new.'

'I don't blush -- I never do blush,' affirmed she, while another eddy from
the heart sent up its scarlet. 'But I thought you were in the dining-room, and I
wanted Lucy.'

'You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just been
called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter for you; it
will save Matthieu a "course," as he calls it.'

'Order something, papa; express your wish; only don't hurt, don't grieve
Graham. I cannot, cannot bear that. I love you, papa; but I love Graham, too,
because -- because -- it is impossible to help it.'

'This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly -- that is my present notion
of him: it will surprise you to hear that; for my part, I do not love him one
whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad's eye I never quite fathomed --
something his mother has not -- a depth which warned a man not to wade into that
stream too far; now, suddenly, I find myself taken over the crown of the
head.'

'Papa, you don't -- you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you
can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a convent,
and break Graham's heart to-morrow, if you choose to be so cruel. Now autocrat,
now czar, will you do this?'

'Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don't like him,
Polly, and I wonder that you should.'

'Papa,' said she, 'do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you look so
disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is an expression in
your face which does not belong to you.'

'Off with him!' pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed and
annoyed -- even a little bitter; 'but, I suppose, if he went, Polly would pack a
bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won -- won, and weaned from her
old father.'

'Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way. I am
not weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence can wean
me.'

'Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter; go,
and be a wife!'

'Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of
prejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your countrymen, are the
victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think, when no distinction is to be
make between red and deep nut-brown.'

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness, superiority
to taunts: knowing her father's character, guessing his few foibles; she had
expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring; it did not take her by
surprise, and she desired to let it pass with dignity reliant upon reaction. Her
dignity stood her in no stead. Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on
his neck: --

'My lamb! my treasure!' murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said no
more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it
might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion.
In the ante-room stood no servant: a tall gentleman was placing his hat on the
table, drawing off his gloves slowly -- lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He
called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said: --

He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to
write mortal, but such words ill apply to one all living like him) -- a vital
suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never
faded.

'Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeed to
quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them, and I do.
My mother is good; she is divine; and you are true as steel. Are you not?'

'Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly little hand
to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be with the
right. Lucy, say Amen!'

He turned, and waited till I said 'Amen!' -- which I did to please him: the
old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success; and
successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born
vanquished.

'Well, Bretton,' said Mr. Home, 'you have given me the usual reward of
hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always glad to see
you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair;' and,
meantime, I will not say you robbed me, but I am bereaved, and what I have lost,
you, it seems, have won.'

'Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended partly
from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt in all you look,
speak and think. You have his cunning and his charm. The red -- (Well, then,
Polly, the fair) hair, the tongue, of guile, and brain of wile, are all come
down by inheritance.'

'Sir, I feel honest enough;' said Graham; and a genuine English blush
covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. 'And yet,' he added, 'I
won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In your presence I have
always had a thought which I dared not show you. I did truly regard you as the
possessor of the most valuable thing the world owns for me. I wished for it; I
tried for it. Sir, I ask for it now.'

She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She gazed
tenderly on her furrowed sire.

'Papa, I love you both,' said she; 'I can take care of you both. I need not
send Graham away -- he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,' she alleged,
with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont to make both her
father and Graham smile. They smiled now.

'He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,' still persisted Mr. Home. 'I
don't want him, Polly, he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell him to march.'

'You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at first -
- like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would rather not
have him otherwise.'

'I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I should
never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in that relation.
Dismiss this gentleman.'

'No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don't think to coax me between
you.'

'Indeed, indeed, you are friends. Graham, stretch out your right hand. Papa,
put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don't be stiff; close your fingers; be
pliant -- there! But that is not a clasp -- it is a grasp! Papa, you grasp like
a vice. You crush Graham's hand to the bone; you hurt him!'

He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with brilliants
of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's flesh and drew blood: but pain only
made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him smile.

'Come with me into my study,' at last said Mr. Home to the doctor. They
went. Their intercourse was not long, but I suppose it was conclusive. The
suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutiny on many things. Whether
Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look and language or not, there was a sound
foundation below. His answers, I understood afterwards, evinced both wisdom and
integrity. He had managed his affairs well. He had struggled through
entanglements; his fortunes were in the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a
position to marry.

Once more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. de Bassompierre
shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.

'Take her,' he said. 'Take her, John Bretton: and may God deal with you as
you deal with her!'

Not long after, perhaps a fortnight; I saw three persons, Count de
Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on one seat, under a
low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of the palace at Bois l'Etang.
They had come thither to enjoy a summer evening; outside the magnificent gates
their carriage waited to take them home; the green sweeps of turf spread round
them quiet and dim; the palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on
Pentelicus; the evening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs
embalmed the climate of this spot; the hour was still and sweet; the scene; but
for this group, was solitary.

Paulina sat between the two gentlemen: while they conversed, her little
hands were busy at some work; I thought at first she was binding a nosegay. No;
with the tiny pair of scissors, glittering in her lap, she had severed spoils
from each manly head beside her, and was now occupied in plaiting together the
grey lock and the golden wave. The plait woven -- no silk thread being at hand
to bind it -- a tress of her own hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied
it like a knot, prisoned it in a locket, and laid it on her heart.

'Now,' said she, 'there is an amulet made, which has the virtue to keep you
two always friends. You can never quarrel so long as I wear this.'

An amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which rendered enmity impossible.
She was become a bond to both, an influence over each, a mutual concord. From
them she drew her happiness, and what she borrowed, she, with interest, gave
back.

Is there, indeed such happiness on earth? I asked, as I watched the father,
the daughter, the future husband, now united -- all blessed and blessing.

Yes; it is so. Without any colouring or romance, or any exaggeration of
fancy, it is so. Some real lives do -- for some certain days or years --
actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, if such perfect
happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked it never comes), its sweet
effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trials follow, whatever pains of sickness
or shades of death, the glory precedent still shines through, cheering the keen
anguish, and tinging the deep cloud.

I will go farther. I do believe there are some human beings so born, so
reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and late grave, that no excessive
suffering penetrates their lot, and no tempestuous blackness overcasts their
journey. And often, these are not pampered, selfish beings, but Nature's elect,
harmonious and benign; men and women mild with charity, kind agents of God's
kind attributes.

Let me not delay the happy truth. Graham Bretton and Paulina de Bassompierre
were married, and such an agent did Dr. Bretton prove. He did not with time
degenerate; his faults decayed, his virtues ripened; he rose in intellectual
refinement, he won in moral profit: all dregs filtered away, the clear wine
settled bright and tranquil. Bright, too, was the destiny of his sweet wife. She
kept her husband's love, she aided in his progress -- of his happiness she was
the corner stone.

This pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with great prosperity,
great goodness: they imparted with open hand, yet wisely. Doubtless they knew
crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but these were well borne. More than
once, too, they had to look on Him whose face flesh scarce can see and live:
they had to pay their tribute to the King of Terrors. In the fulness of years,
M. de Bassompierre was taken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even
there rose a cry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but others
sprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton saw himself live
again in a son who inherited his looks and his disposition; he had stately
daughters, too, like himself: these children he reared with a suave, yet a firm
hand, they grew up according to inheritance and nurture.

In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives of Graham
and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob's favoured son, with 'blessings of
Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies under.' It was so, for God saw
that it was good.